Lie near me in dim forests where the croon Of wood-doves sounds and moss-banked water flows, Or musing late till the midsummer moon Breaks through some ruined abbey's empty rose.

Sweetest of those to-day whose pious hands Tend the sequestered altar of Romance, Where fewer offerings burn, and fewer kneel, Pour there your pa.s.sionate beauty on my heart, And, gladdening such solitudes, impart How sweet the fellowship of those who feel!

Coucy

The rooks aclamor when one enters here Startle the empty towers far overhead; Through gaping walls the summer fields appear, Green, tan, or, poppy-mingled, tinged with red.

The courts where revel rang deep gra.s.s and moss Cover, and tangled vines have overgrown The gate where banners blazoned with a cross Rolled forth to toss round Tyre and Ascalon.

Decay consumes it. The old causes fade.

And fretting for the contest many a heart Waits their Tyrtaeus to chant on the new.

Oh, pa.s.s him by who, in this haunted shade Musing enthralled, has only this much art, To love the things the birds and flowers love too.

Tezcotzinco

Though thou art now a ruin bare and cold, Thou wert sometime the garden of a king.

The birds have sought a lovelier place to sing.

The flowers are few. It was not so of old.

It was not thus when hand in hand there strolled Through arbors perfumed with undying Spring Bare bodies beautiful, brown, glistening, Decked with green plumes and rings of yellow gold.

Do you suppose the herdsman sometimes hears Vague echoes borne beneath the moon's pale ray From those old, old, far-off, forgotten years?

Who knows? Here where his ancient kings held sway He stands. Their names are strangers to his ears.

Even their memory has pa.s.sed away.

The Old Lowe House, Staten Island

Another prospect pleased the builder's eye, And Fashion tenanted (where Fashion wanes) Here in the sorrowful suburban lanes When first these gables rose against the sky.

Relic of a romantic taste gone by, This stately monument alone remains, Vacant, with lichened walls and window-panes Blank as the windows of a skull. But I, On evenings when autumnal winds have stirred In the porch-vines, to this gray oracle Have laid a wondering ear and oft-times heard, As from the hollow of a stranded sh.e.l.l, Old voices echoing (or my fancy erred) Things indistinct, but not insensible.

Oneata

A hilltop sought by every soothing breeze That loves the melody of murmuring boughs, Cool shades, green acreage, and antique house Fronting the ocean and the dawn; than these Old monks built never for the spirit's ease Cloisters more calm--not Cluny nor Clairvaux; Sweet are the noises from the bay below, And cuckoos calling in the tulip-trees.

Here, a yet empty suitor in thy train, Beloved Poesy, great joy was mine To while a listless spell of summer days, Happier than h.o.a.rder in each evening's gain, When evenings found me richer by one line, One verse well turned, or serviceable phrase.

On the Cliffs, Newport

Tonight a shimmer of gold lies mantled o'er Smooth lovely Ocean. Through the l.u.s.trous gloom A savor steals from linden trees in bloom And gardens ranged at many a palace door.

Proud walls rise here, and, where the moonbeams pour Their pale enchantment down the dim coast-line, Terrace and lawn, trim hedge and flowering vine, Crown with fair culture all the sounding sh.o.r.e.

How sweet, to such a place, on such a night, From halls with beauty and festival a-glare, To come distract and, stretched on the cool turf, Yield to some fond, improbable delight, While the moon, reddening, sinks, and all the air Sighs with the m.u.f.fled tumult of the surf!

To England at the Outbreak of the Balkan War

A cloud has lowered that shall not soon pa.s.s o'er.

The world takes sides: whether for impious aims With Tyranny whose b.l.o.o.d.y toll enflames A generous people to heroic war; Whether with Freedom, stretched in her own gore, Whose pleading hands and suppliant distress Still offer hearts that thirst for Righteousness A glorious cause to strike or perish for.

England, which side is thine? Thou hast had sons Would shrink not from the choice however grim, Were Justice trampled on and Courage downed; Which will they be--cravens or champions?

Oh, if a doubt intrude, remember him Whose death made Missolonghi holy ground.

At the Tomb of Napoleon Before the Elections in America--November, 1912

I stood beside his sepulchre whose fame, Hurled over Europe once on bolt and blast, Now glows far off as storm-clouds overpast Glow in the sunset flushed with glorious flame.

Has Nature marred his mould? Can Art acclaim No hero now, no man with whom men side As with their hearts' high needs personified?

There are will say, One such our lips could name; Columbia gave him birth. Him Genius most Gifted to rule. Against the world's great man Lift their low calumny and sneering cries The Pharisaic mult.i.tude, the host Of piddling slanderers whose little eyes Know not what greatness is and never can.

The Rendezvous

He faints with hope and fear. It is the hour.

Distant, across the thundering organ-swell, In sweet discord from the cathedral-tower, Fall the faint chimes and the thrice-sequent bell.

Over the crowd his eye uneasy roves.

He sees a plume, a fur; his heart dilates -- Soars . . . and then sinks again. It is not hers he loves.

She will not come, the woman that he waits.

Braided with streams of silver incense rise The antique prayers and ponderous antiphones.

'Gloria Patri' echoes to the skies; 'Nunc et in saecula' the choir intones.

He marks not the monotonous refrain, The priest that serves nor him that celebrates, But ever scans the aisle for his blonde head. . . . In vain!

She will not come, the woman that he waits.

How like a flower seemed the perfumed place Where the sweet flesh lay loveliest to kiss; And her white hands in what delicious ways, With what unfeigned caresses, answered his!

Each tender charm intolerable to lose, Each happy scene his fancy recreates.

And he calls out her name and spreads his arms . . . No use!

She will not come, the woman that he waits.